Sometime Around Midnight
by 2cents
Summary: In the wake of having saved the world, Stephen visits Christine in an attempt to talk to her about why he left, what happened while he was gone, and hopefully rekindle their relationship.
1. Chapter 1

_Note: I don't own Doctor Strange (although I'd love to), or It's Hard (Letting You Go), Bon Jovi_

* * *

 _well, me, these days I just miss you_

 _it's the nights that I go insane_

There were long days, long nights, and then there was this, which Christine couldn't even begin to categorize. For some reason, even "the king of long-ass days" didn't sound quite right. And yet, she didn't want to leave the hospital - her colleagues had to, almost literally, drag her away from the ER. Her list of excuses was just as long as that day had been: she didn't have anything better to do, she wasn't tired, they needed help, _but look at that kid, I think he's got chickenpox_. Some of these were actually true: she didn't have anything better to do and they surely could use her help, but she was exhausted, and it showed. However, Christine knew that, as soon as she changed from scrubs into regular clothes, she'd have to think about something else, and inevitably her thoughts would turn to Stephen. And there she was, making her way out against her will and forcing her mind to focus on where she would stop to get cigarettes. Fortunately, there were a lot of options to consider.

The doors opened and the parking lot felt surprisingly brisk, snow falling lightly. _"How long was I in there?"_ , she wondered, crossing her arms and speeding up her pace towards her car.

"Christine!"

"Nick?", she turned around, her car already unlocked.

He took a deep breath. "It was so weird today, wasn't it?"

"I'm really not in the mood to talk about that," she retorted bluntly, opening the door to get away from him and whatever else reminded her of what had happened. Nick wouldn't give up that easily.

"It's just... who was that woman who died? How did she fall from a building, and why?"

She stood up straight, looking away and wishing she could be rude enough to leave him hanging. All she managed was a sigh, hoping it would be the clue for him to leave her alone. Nope.

"And where did Strange come from? Why was he dressed like that? And then he just... disappeared?", he asked, waving his hands around.

"Listen,", she snapped, looking at him over the hood of her car, her tone growing harsher. "I'm going to save you the trouble and answer all your questions. I have no idea where he went, and I don't know where he came from - it's not like I'd have his itinerary now, is it? And why did he come back? Why would he, after all this time anyway? I have no fucking clue, Nick. None, all right?"

Nick stepped back and put his hands up in defeat. While not answering his questions, she'd let out much more than what he cared to know.

"Okay, okay! Chillax."

She rolled her eyes. Chillax? Who talks like that?

"I'm sorry. Just... long day, that's all."

"Yeah. Get some rest."

Christine watched him walk away and got into her car, gripping the wheel. _"Maybe if I stop at every single place that sells cigarettes..."_

* * *

"This doesn't even feel like New York", Stephen thought, contemplating the city from above. The sights, the sounds, the smell: it all felt so strange, but so familiar. He looked down; it was the night before Thanksgiving, and the hustle and bustle of the city was in full force - tourists enjoying the light snow, people making last minute shopping for dinner ingredients, couples enjoying a night out. From a deserted rooftop at the 20th floor, however, things were quieter. Voices were muffled and cars were passing by miles away from where he was standing, their engines turned into white noise. A faded, distant version of the world on the ground.

Stephen welcomed the stillness; embraced it even – it had been one hell of a day, or days. Hell, he couldn't even pinpoint exactly when shit hit the fan and he was sucked into the role of world savior. He closed his eyes, but instead of taking in the silent peace of that moment, a violent, purple, angry image flashed in his mind's eye. He flinched, feeling a pit in his stomach as he experienced it all over again: being burned, impaled, mutilated, beheaded. Losing. Failing, countless times.

Dying.

Instinctively, he stepped back from the ledge, shaking his head to get rid of those thoughts, and when he opened his eyes again he caught a glimpse of one tiny light going out in the building across the street. Had someone seen him? Not that New Yorkers would ever care about some guy on a rooftop anyway. The item of clothing that could give him away – the cloak – was dutifully standing by the door. Still, he felt uneasy with the realization that his days as a regular civilian were gone and he would have to look over his shoulder for the rest of his days. For the longest time he had craved recognition, to be acknowledged for his brilliance, for his competence. Then, he fought hard to blend in to a place where he didn't belong at all. And now, Stephen found himself torn between hiding away or standing out.

He turned around and spotted those cheap and tacky pieces of patio furniture which had been there since the first time Christine invited him over, years ago. Dozens of uncomfortable summer nights spent on that awful wicker couch, counting the minutes to go home. How could "sitting at home alone on a suede couch" ever beat "sitting on a wicker couch with Christine"? He couldn't tell. But it did, every time. And to think he used to wonder why she didn't reply to his emails.

A bitter cold coursed through his spine, and the cloak immediately made its way to cover his back. That was it. The portal he had come through was still open, hissing, waiting for him to choose which way to go. Stephen didn't want to go back to the Sanctum just yet - he had a feeling he would spend way too much time there. And given that they had fought a world-threatening entity and won, he wasn't expecting any new menaces in the next 24 hours. There was enough time. There had to be.

The circle of light became smaller and smaller until it vanished, leaving sparks on the ground, melting into the slush. After taking a deep breath, Stephen forced his astral form out of his body. It wasn't right, spying on Christine like that, he knew that much. It would definitely be easier to show up in the middle of her living room, but he knew she didn't appreciate surprises – she never did. And for all he knew, she probably had moved anyway and Stephen wanted to make sure he would show up at the right place. And yes, also to check if she was alone. God, he hoped she was.

* * *

Christine sighed in exasperation, holding the phone between her ear and shoulder, fumbling through her keys until she managed to open the door. "How many times have we discussed this, Sarah? You know I don't have time for that."

"You mean, you don't want to put it in the least effort into meeting someone new." Her sister always had a very efficient way of cutting through her bullshit.

"Stop putting words in my mouth, that's not what I said."

"Right."

"I mean, I've tried. There was that guy I met at Starbucks, remember? The teacher?"

"And…"

"And it took him weeks to ask me out, even though we ran into each other and made small talk almost every day while waiting for our coffees."

Christine paused while searching her purse for a cigarette, and the words just fell from her mouth.

"I guess I should have known."

"Should have known what?"

"That he was indecisive, Sarah, and I don't like wishy-washy guys," Christine stated, growing impatient, lit cigarette in hand, gesturing towards no one. "I had to spend three long, boring hours on a date with him before I realized he wasn't…"

"Stephen?"

"… exactly my type."

Sarah scoffed. "Same difference. You know, I wonder if Stephen ever figured out that the 'Strange policy' really means that you won't date anyone else, ever again."

"Just… just shut up. I'm this close to hanging up on you," Christine muttered under her breath while pacing around the balcony. It was so not the right moment to have that conversation, but if she brought up the fact that Stephen had showed up, she'd never hear the end of it.

"Okay, calm down. You're coming tomorrow, right?"

"Yes, Sarah, I will. But please, promise you won't bring him up. Or any other guy for that matter."

"I think can do that for you."

Stephen descended slowly, stopping mid-air beside the balcony where Christine was. The first thing he noticed was the cigarette in her hand, and couldn't help but cringe. Oh, the hypocrisy of saving lives while wasting your own. She quickly wrapped up her phone call, and he could tell by the look on her face that she wasn't too happy about it.

"All right, I'll see you then."

Christine tucked the phone in her pocket and leaned forward, her eyebrows furrowed, elbows resting on the railing. Even thought she'd never admit it, her sister was right. There had been no one after Stephen, at least no one worth mentioning or being considered as a successful date. Those guys all fine, in a broad sense. But the gap that was left couldn't be filled by a random guy.

"Damn it, Stephen," she mumbled, to get the words out of her chest. Stephen floated closer, in time to see her wiping away a tear before she turned her face away from him, as if she knew he was there. Christine took a long drag of her cigarette, and right then he didn't have the heart to be judgmental - he had left her in such awful terms and had since lost his right to criticize anything she did. He had just asked her to perform surgery on his body while his astral form brawled in an ethereal fist fight, and disappeared. As if that wasn't enough, he showed up again, asking her to save a stranger, which she couldn't do, and disappeared once more. Finally, there she was in the aftermath, trying to make sense of it all. It wasn't fair, and you know what, she could smoke all she wanted.

The events that happened that day kept replaying in Christine's mind. To say it was hard to put the pieces together was an understatement. It was damn near impossible. Did she perform an operation on Stephen while being assisted – and then disturbed – by his… soul? Did he disappear into a circle of light? And had she really held his hand, looked into his eyes, and kissed his cheek before leaving him?

"None of this makes sense", she thought, looking up at the smoke dissolving into the crisp, cool air. Moving her head made her realize that she would need more than an Advil to take care of that massive headache. Crying wasn't helping either. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, put the cigarette away on an ashtray and went back in, straight to the fridge. A glass of wine, even a cheap one, could help her deal with her thoughts. If that failed, at least it would help her sleep better. Christine would need the rest – Thanksgiving was up next and her sister had enough reasons to criticize her. Showing up with dark circles under her eyes would only give Sarah more ammunition.

Glass in hand, she took off her shoes and was making her way towards the couch when she was startled by the sound of her doorbell ringing. She muttered a couple of "fucks" while heading to the door. Someone at her door at that time of the night? Couldn't be good. She looked through the peephole.

 _Am I seeing things?_

As she opened the door, Christine was certain that her mind was playing tricks on her. It was Stephen, still wearing those weird clothes. A dozen layers of blue shawls, belts, bandages and a crimson cloak that would look awesome as a throw blanket on her new couch. A far cry from scrubs and tuxes she was used to seeing him wearing.

"How did you… why are you… I mean, how did you get here?", Christine asked, the door hanging open, as well as her mouth. As if that day hadn't had enough unanswered questions.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I just… I had to see you."

Christine turned around to look at her empty apartment. She had just come home. It couldn't be a coincidence that he'd show up right then.

"How did you know I was home?", she asked, her eyes squinting.

Stephen straightened up his back.

"I had a hunch."

She sighed and looked back at him, her expression a mix of surprise and joy and fear. Christine had imagined thousands of ways of him coming back to her, but this was not one of them.

"Are you going to let me in or am I just going to be a weirdly dressed guy standing at your door?"

"Sure," she stepped back and gestured towards the living room, "make yourself right at home."


	2. Chapter 2

_Note: I don't own Doctor Strange (although I'd love to), or My Least Favorite Life, Lera Lynn_

* * *

 _this is my least favorite life_

 _the one where you fly and I don't_

Going back in time was now a familiar concept for Stephen, and that was how it felt stepping into Christine's apartment. It was eerily unchanged: the same faint smell of smoke that used to bother him to the point of almost never staying the night. Whenever he did stay the night and when they had time to have breakfast, she would make him the fluffiest pancakes in that same tiny, but spotless kitchen. The same poorly lit and disproportionately large dining table, the unhealthy amount of pictures in frames standing on a small sideboard. And while there was a new (and rather inviting) couch, the TV was still the same. He recalled having bugged her for months to get a new one, but Christine couldn't care less. "I'm never home," she would say, "what's the point?" And he would roll his eyes, because who wouldn't want a 72-inch 3D TV? Christine, that's who. And quite frankly, now Stephen wouldn't want one either. It would be easier to admit that she had been right about pretty much everything all along.

Christine closed the door behind her and tiptoed around Stephen, his gaze still fixated on the living room. He didn't resemble at all the broken man she had recently seen. The gashes on his face and lips had been cleaned up and tended to. It seemed like he was at least one foot taller, twenty pounds heavier, and occupied twice as much space. It was probably the cloak's fault that he looked bulkier, and well, quite heroic. As out of place as he seemed to be in her apartment, he was there; and Christine should be happy. The months that followed his disappearance were drenched in wine, cigarettes and more tears than she would like to admit, as she struggled between being mad at him for leaving without a word, and yearning for him to come back. So many hours spent, fantasizing about his return. Maybe it had been just a horrific nightmare and he would waltz back into the hospital, with his unmistakable gait and smug smile, ready to show everyone he was still the great Doctor Stephen Strange. Perhaps Christine would run into him, looking the part of the world's best neurosurgeon at a random medicine-related event - but that would be tricky since he was the reason she went to those events in the first place. Or the option that would run around her head most of the time: he would just knock at her door one night, lost, unkempt, drunk, apologizing profusely and conceding that he needed her help. That's what she did, right? Helped people. Because she cared.

 _"You care so much, don't you?"_

Those words still stung as if Stephen had just said them, and that wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was that Stephen came back because he knew that _she cared so much_. Yes, she ethically couldn't refuse to treat someone; but it was Stephen, and no matter how angry Christine was, she would never, ever refuse to help him. He counted on that. And Christine, predictable as ever, did exactly what he wanted her to. Fixed him up, talked to him, trusted him, as if nothing had happened. Sent him back into the world, heart just humming. Realizing that made her stomach turn.

The good news was that now he didn't need any fixing, he didn't need any help, so she didn't have to care. She had pretended not to care about him for a long time, and became quite good at it. Lots of practice with conversations that would go something like this:

 _"What happened to Stephen?"_

 _"I don't know."_

 _"But where did he go?"_

 _"I don't care."_

The lies she built up to convince herself that her world was the same without him. The facade she built while pretending she was semi-making it, when in fact she was burning through two packs of cigarette a day. Yeah, lung cancer, blah blah blah, Christine had seen many cancerous lungs and she didn't care because he had vanished, and cigarettes were her only way of trying to deal with it - well, sort of. She had since gone down to one pack a day, and the feelings of resentment had been put in check, until now. They were itching, burning at the base of her throat, clawing their way up to her mouth to make her scream _how could you leave?_

The scream never happened. It was interrupted by Stephen's cloak loosening up and floating away until it reached the door. Christine had seen it before in the hospital, but that didn't make it any less creepy. She glanced at the majestic piece of fabric, looked back at Stephen and crossed her arms, her jaws clenched. He knew that look - the one that meant his apologies had not been enough, and Stephen began to fear that they would never be. Maybe what he had done was indeed unforgivable. It wasn't just the fact that he left, he knew that much. It was everything that led to the day when he decided he wouldn't be coming back. His unmanageable ego, his complete disregard for their relationship, his continuous disdain for Christine's help, even though she was the only person he had left. Leaving her was just the icing on the cake of his wrongdoings.

An avalanche of unwanted memories started to roll down his mind.

 _"This is the part where you leave."_

What was he thinking? That because she had accepted him as a patient, that things would all of a sudden be different? That his apology, although sincere, would be enough for her to forgive him? Maybe not, but... _she kissed me._

They had shared hospital sinks many times while washing hands, and whenever a patient couldn't be saved, Stephen noticed that Christine let the water run through her hands for a bit longer than necessary. He would wash up and move on; she would lag behind. It was her moment of grief and respect for the person who had passed away, and Stephen never understood that until the last time they stood side by side, after The Ancient One had died. He too needed that moment. His trembling hands had reached out to hers, and she didn't flinch. And when he touched her face, her eyes were pure compassion and kindness and it took all his might not to open a portal right then and there, and disappear with her. Just be alone with her, away from the chaos and threats, like... they were right now.

"Stephen," Christine called out, snapping him out of his thoughts. His eyes went straight to meet hers.

"I... I don't know where to start," he said, unsure of his words.

Christine scoffed, and was about to reply with a witty comeback when she realized she didn't know either. She needed so many answers, and Stephen watched her squint while searching for what to say.

Where to start?

How about the night of his accident, when Christine barked orders at doctors and nurses for hours on end to make sure that everyone gave their best, because she knew that they all not-so-secretly envied Stephen and maybe, just maybe, they would be happy to see him fail?

How about the months that followed his accident, during which she visited him at least every other day and made sure his bare necessities were taken care of, such as toothpaste and clean underwear, because he had no one and was too busy spending all his time and his money on a cure he knew didn't exist?

How about the last time they saw each other, when he had the nerve to tell her they'd barely been friends and threw away every single moment they spent together - good and bad?

Or maybe his ridiculous attempt at reconnecting with her by sending a three-word e-mail, months after having disappeared without a trace? Where to start, indeed?

Her eyes were starting to get glossy again just like they did when she was in the balcony, and Stephen fought the urge to reach out and hold her, even though he had a feeling she wouldn't fight back if he did. Instead of a scream, the question came out faint and quivering.

"How could you leave?"

Stephen looked down and took a deep breath. Yep, that could be a start.

"It's a long story."

She looked back at the glass of wine that she had left on the dining table before opening the door to the past. She'd been on an 18-hour shift after having slept less than 5 hours; the day after would be filled with food and family and a never ending parade of questions about her non-existent love life, as if that was anyone's business. She might as well make something out of the time she had in between.

"I got time," Christine shrugged and made her way to a chair, glass in hand, waiting for him to start talking.

"Jonathan Pangborn," he blurted out.

She narrowed her eyes, trying to place the name. "Patient? Fellow doctor? Cult leader? Cloak design-"

"C7/C8 complete spinal cord injury," he resumed without missing a beat. "When I went to meet him, he was playing basketball."

"That's not possible," she stated, matter-of-factly. Stephen didn't blame her - that would have been his answer too.

"Oh I know," he said, pacing back and forth in her living room, hands behind his back. "But I saw his file, so I know the extent of his injury, and it was real. I also saw him running around, shooting hoops. That was also real."

Christine reached out and fished a cigarette from her purse, and he didn't have the heart to try and stop her. She shook her head in disbelief.

"How can that... How?"

"That's what I asked him. And his answer was Kamar-Taj."

"Riiiiiight," she said, blowing out a puff of smoke. "Kathmandu."

He stopped in his tracks and recognized the 'stop bullshitting me' look on her face.

"Christine, I know what I saw. He was a new man. I had never seen a complete cure like that, and you know I searched and I searched until I was bankrupt."

"So you just... went."

"I had to try."

Christine shook her head slowly, wondering if things would have been different if he had told her about this Pangborn guy. She wouldn't believe that story, not even if she saw what he did. There was some sort of cutting edge technology for recovering severe nerve damage hiding in Nepal and no one knew about it? Not likely. And then she would have tried to persuade him not to leave. If he stayed... well, that would mean he'd have surrendered to failure, and Stephen just didn't do that, ever. He would have gone anyway. She wouldn't necessarily be less mad at him. That conclusion didn't make the situation any better, but it was weirdly satisfying to realize that they could have ended up in this exact same place.

"Okay. And how did you get from 'I need to have my hands fixed' to this?", she asked, gesturing towards him.

"This is where it gets tricky-"

" _This_ is where it gets tricky?," she chuckled as she stood up. "Stephen, this is all a huge trick to me. Look, I believe you teleported yourself because I saw it, you were right there in the mop closet and then you disappeared. I believe you can, I don't know, detach your soul because I saw it, your head was floating right in front of me while your body was lying on a gurney. And I believe you have a magic cape-"

"Cloak."

"Whatever, a magic cloak because it's hanging around my apartment right now, but that doesn't mean any of this makes any sense. How did this happen, how come this is all happening now?", she ranted, waving her hands around, red wine dancing dangerously in her glass and making Stephen wonder if he could be fast enough to catch the glass and her cigarette before they hit the floor. It had taken him months and months to kinda-sorta begin to understand how some of it worked, and this was because he was fully immersed, reading and learning every day and every night. This wasn't like recapping a week's vacation, but giving Christine some sort of explanation was the only thing that could, perhaps, take that frown off her forehead for a moment and allow a somewhat regular conversation, which was the only thing he wanted. Just one normal night with her. Was that too much to ask?

"The woman I brought in... you could say she was the master at Kamar-Taj. I insisted that she'd take me in since I didn't have any money to even come back, and she eventually did. At first, I thought she was going to teach me how to heal my hands, the way she cured Pangborn. That's what I was there for. But then..."

Stephen breathed in and stared blankly ahead for a moment, and Christine realized he was looking at something she couldn't see. In a flash, he remembered zipping through dimensions and universes, the weird feeling of experiencing yourself outside your body for the first time. The freezing Himalayan air, further crippling his impaired hands; and the massive energy and focus he had to channel to create his first portal so that he wouldn't freeze to death right then and there. His crazy, long and painful journey to become the master of the New York Sanctum.

"Then..."

"She taught me so much more."

"Like what?", she inquired, taking one long drag before putting the cigarette out.

"Like...", he trailed off for a moment. "Like the soul-detaching thing you mentioned. It's actually forcing the astral form out of the body. You enter another dimension - the astral dimension."

"Okay," she offered lamely, thinking that whatever Kamar-Taj was, they must have been pretty damn good at brain-washing people. Stephen was one of the most skeptical people she knew, and he loathed that inner-power, tea-drinking, chakra-channeling crap. He didn't believe in acupuncture or homeopathy, let alone any sort of astral dimension.

Stephen smirked, raising an eyebrow at her. The idea of _really_ explaining it to her sounded very appealing. It would definitely take the frown off her forehead, and that was worth a try.

"I can show you... if you want."


	3. Chapter 3

Note: I don't own Doctor Strange or The Keeper, Chris Cornell

* * *

 _I cannot see the light_

 _at the end of the tunnel tonight_

 _my eyes are weary_

"Do you want me to show you?", Stephen asks, and Christine narrowed her eyes while entertaining the possibility. She couldn't decide whether he was trying to lure her in to his cult or actually trying to show her something, but either way she wasn't too keen on accepting his offer. The day had been crazy enough on its own.

This didn't mean she wasn't curious. After all, weird things happened, and kept on happening - it wasn't like she could pretend his cloak wasn't still there, guarding her door. So she took a sip of wine and probed him a bit further.

"Show me what, exactly?"

"The... astral dimension," he stated, and Christine couldn't help but chuckle. The weird thing was that Stephen had taught her so much during the years they'd known each other. He was the most brilliant doctor she knew, even though she tried hard not to let him know that; and working with him was a privilege... most of the times. She would listen to him for hours on end, regarding the latest findings in the neurosurgery field, and he would talk about it with such passion that it was impossible not to be enthralled. They would discuss procedures and possibilities, and feed off each others' curiosity. When they were alone, Stephen felt at ease - he had nothing to prove. And Christine, in turn, didn't feel like a complete idiot, dulled by the shade of his brightness, as others often felt when in his company.

And yet he was about to lecture her on different dimensions. Of all the things that had happened that day, this was probably the craziest one. His eyes were trained on hers, and they reminded her that this was Stephen. There was no way in hell that he would be swayed to believe in something unless he had it fact-checked and was thoroughly convinced it was true. There had to be a teeny, tiny possibility that he was telling the truth.

"All right, what do we need?", she inquired, approaching him. "Candles? Incense? I can find a meditation playlist on Spotify."

Stephen recalled Mordo's words when he was at the doorsteps of Kamar-Taj, broken, yet arrogant and disrespectful as Mordo had been before him. As Christine was being then.

"Put your glass on the table."

She did just that and nothing else.

"Christine," he said, extending his hand towards her, "there's nothing to be afraid of."

"The fact that you need to say that there's nothing to be afraid of just proves that there's something to be afraid of," she ranted, taking hesitant steps in his direction.

"Do you trust me?", he asked point blank, and her eyes shot up to meet his. Any other day, she would have sighed and say _yes, I have always trusted you_ , but this was far from being any other day. Her swooning filter was up and running, trying to keep her from falling for Stephen again. Once was more than enough.

"Yeah," she answered under her breath, and he nodded.

"Good. This won't hurt."

"What do you mean this won-"

To Christine's shock, she couldn't finish her sentence because Stephen was performing some sort of kick-boxing movement, and swiftly pressed his palm against her sternum. It didn't hurt, but in a split second, she was flying. Or at least, that's what it felt like.

"What the hell?", she thought out loud. Christine looked down and her entire body was translucent and fluid-like, as if it was made of light; she couldn't feel her arms or even begin to grasp what was happening. She was consciously there, floating above her dining table, but she could see her body going limp, and Stephen was reaching out to keep her from falling on her back. He lifted his head and looked in her direction, in super slow motion, as if he knew she was there, even though Christine was pretty sure he couldn't see her. She flapped her arms around, trying to float back to where her body was, but she didn't really know how; and the feeling of weightlessness sent her into a daze, when everything went blank for a moment and then she was in Stephen's arms.

Of course she was hyperventilating, but hey, at least she could feel her arms and legs again.

"Christine, look at me," Stephen commanded as he placed his hands on either side of her face, his voice rumbling through her dizzy head like thunder. Christine's eyes darted from side to side and Stephen could feel her pulse going crazy on his fingertips, so he pulled her head closer to his, for fear of her passing out.

"Look at me, Christine, just... you're okay, it's fine, I'm here. You're okay."

She swallowed dry and tried to catch her erratic breath, her eyes finally meeting his.

"No no no no no, see, it's not okay, what the hell just happened? I was right here, and then I was there, like, floating, and... transparent? And you were moving soooo slowly and then I tried to-"

"Yes, yes, I know."

Christine squirmed and struggled to get away from him but her legs were still weak, and Stephen steadied her by placing his hands on either side of her shoulders.

"You entered the astral dimension for a moment."

"What?"

"A whole other dimension. Is that so hard to believe?"

"As a matter of fact, it is," she replied, rubbing her hands over her thighs to try and make her legs work properly again.

"Well, you were floating, for starters - can't do that in this dimension, at least not on your own. Your body wasn't made of the same muscles and tissues as it is now. Time passed by differently. You could see me, but I couldn't see you."

Her heartbeat slowed down as Christine tried to wrap her head around the fact that not only there was another dimension, but she had also experienced it. How many people can say that? Stephen looked at her and a very familiar smug smile was forming on his lips, while he loosened his grip on her shoulders.

"It's pretty cool, isn't it?"

"Kinda, yeah. So this is what you learned at Kamar-Taj?," she asked, smiling back at him. "Other dimensions and... stuff."

Stephen recalled his endless trips to the library. Nights spent on reading, hours spent on training. He could tell her all those stories, but it wasn't the right time for that. It was the time to make sure they would have more time together. It was the time to stop screwing up.

"You can say that, yes," he paused for a moment. "I realized how much I could help others."

"Other ways to help people. Gee, I wonder who was the first person who told you that?," she joked, reaching for her glass.

"I didn't understand."

Christine had never heard Stephen admit he didn't understand anything, so that was a good sign. Despite the smugness of his smile just minutes before, his speech, his demeanor, everything seemed strangely genuine. She downed what was left of her wine as he started making his way to the balcony.

"So what else did you learn, that doesn't involve sending me flying into other dimensions?"

"Well," he looked up at the night sky as Christine joined him, "there are not only other dimensions, but whole other universes as well. And there are threats... mystical threats that need to be taken care of. I am now part of a group that defends Earth against those threats. Like..."

Stephen caught himself mid-sentence but it was too late. He turned to Christine in time to see her rolling her eyes and her cheeks starting to flush with anger.

"The Avengers? Is that what you're going to say, Stephen?" she snapped, raising the tone of her voice.

* * *

It was that weird moment just before sunrise, when the night had gone away but there wasn't much light. The same could be said about the last 20 hours - it seemed like darkness had passed, but there wasn't any light. No silver lining. Just utter exhaustion, and the sinking feeling that nothing would ever be the same again.

Christine dragged her sore feet across the parking lot, reaching into her mess of a purse to fish for her last cigarette. If there was ever a time to have only one cigarette left, that was it. A time when the world had gone from frantic shades of red to an odd and opaque stillness. She picked it from the crumbled pack and waited until she got close to her car to light it. She opened the door, threw her purse somewhere she didn't care, and sat sideways on the passenger seat, finally lifting her feet off the ground. As she exhaled the first puff of smoke, screams of agony tore through her mind, guttural cries echoing down the hospital halls, the eyes of every single person who pleaded for their lives and the scorching memory of having to choose who lived and who died. Who went right and who went left. Who was allowed to have hope and who wasn't. As a doctor, death was a familiar concept; but it should happen despite her will, and not according to it.

There were too many people, and no one was quite ready for it. Not enough anesthetics. Not enough blood. Not nearly enough doctors.

A few minutes after chaos had set in, two women showed up, unidentified; but by the orders they were giving the staff, Christine knew they must had been in the army. During the course of the day, all the staff came in. Offices were emptied and every flat surface served as a gurney. Mop closets became discharge lounges. Cafeteria chairs were used for patients taking blood transfusions. And Christine lost count of how many surgeries she carried out, how many half-assed sutures she performed just to get people out the door... how many wrong decisions she may have made. While she was drowning in guilt, the cigarette had been standing for so long between her fingers that half of it had turned to ashes, and she flicked them off on the ground before taking a drag. She heard steps coming her way, but it took a while for her to decide whether to lift her head. She wasn't really in the mood for talking to anyone. The steps came to a halt, and she saw Dr. Strange standing there, a few feet away from her car, helmet in hand, as if he had forgotten where he had parked his bike.

Christine hadn't been working at Metro-General for long, but of course she knew who he was even before she took the job. Doctor Stephen Strange, the world famous neurosurgeon. And by the time she had finished her first shift, she already knew that he was a jerk, but that it didn't stop all the doctors from wanting to be like him, and didn't stop all the ladies from wanting to be with him. None of those things had ever happened, though, as far as people knew. He was too brilliant for anyone to catch up with him, and usually showed up alone at events. In the following months, all she knew was that he often refused cases from the ER, on the grounds that "they weren't good enough", which seemed to prove the point about him being a jerk.

But at that very moment, at the crack of dawn of a cold spring day, the mighty Doctor Strange seemed to be just as lost as Christine was.

He looked around and caught a glimpse of Christine, staring back at him. What do you say in those situations? _How are you? I'm good, thanks. I just waddled through endless hours trying to save as many lives as I could, with as little resources as possible, and watched more people die in the course of 18 hours than I did my entire career. I'm super._

Christine dropped what was left of her cigarette on the ground and mustered what was left of her strength to stand up, just to instantly regret it. The pain in her feet shot up through her legs, and she steadied herself on her car's door before taking the first step. It was the first time she saw him in regular clothes. He was wearing dark jeans, gray t-shirt and leather jacket, and sneakers; his hair was a unusually messy, and there was a helmet hanging from his hand. If she didn't know better, she would say he was a regular guy.

He turned his head but didn't quite look at her, and Christine didn't blame him. She did blame him a bit when he chuckled.

"Sorry, it's just funny," he said, his voice gravelly and tired, "I changed my clothes and got my stuff, thinking I was going to go home. Then I checked my phone and I found out I can't go home. Stark destroyed part of my block. Luckily not my building, but it's all closed down."

Christine raised an eyebrow.

"You mean the aliens - is that what we're calling them?", she wondered, "the aliens destroyed part of your block."

He chuckled again, and it started to get on Christine's nerves. It was so ill-timed.

"I was having breakfast when it started, Dr. Palmer," he explained, rather condescendingly, staring straight ahead. "I could see it all from my apartment: that blue ray shooting up at the sky, and it was coming from Stark Tower. I saw as it opened up a hole in the sky, and as the aliens - and the calls - started flooding in. So yes, my homelessness, plus all the lives we lost today, that's all on him. Good thing he's rich, because there will be a tsunami of lawsuits coming his way."

He took a deep breath and turned to Christine, her eyes sunken in dark circles.

"I'm sure you can afford a hotel and you have plenty of friends you could stay with, but I... I have a spare room, if you want," she blurted out. "Stark spared Chelsea."

"Thanks," he replied, nodding. It wasn't a bad idea. He could go to a hotel, but who knew which hotels hadn't been destroyed, and the ones that were still standing would be full by then. Plenty of friends? Plenty of acquaintances, maybe; but not a lot of people he would be comfortable with asking for shelter.

"Look, I don't mean to rush you or anything, but it's just that I'm starving, my feet are killing me, and I just really need to lie down. So... you're coming?", she asked, motioning her head towards the parking lot exit while walking back to her car.

"Yes, if it's not too much trouble for you, Dr. Palmer."

She frowned at his unnecessary formalities.

"It's... it's Christine," she said, waving him off. "Follow me."

She got back in the car and watched as he put on his helmet and sat on a monstrous motorcycle. Only then it occurred to her that it might be weird having him around in her apartment, but she was too tired to even consider worrying about that. She had always heard that Strange was obnoxious, but the truth was that he had never been rude to her in the few times they've spoken to each other. He'd never been particularly friendly either - a true co-worker, by all means, who could use a beer and probably a slice of a homemade lasagna - luckily, she had both in her fridge.

* * *

"Well, that makes sense," she said, ironically, her hands gripping the railing. "You start bringing in one person to the hospital, then another, then maybe next week you'll bring a dozen, and then boom, half the city goes to shit and we're all losing our sanity trying to save everyone, even though we know we can't. I can't believe this."

Stephen had experienced, just as much as she did, the trail of destruction left by the Avengers. He was sure that Tony Stark never even bothered knowing how many people died in New York that day, but things were different now. If Stephen hadn't won his bargain with Dormammu, would he want to know how many people died because of his failure? Even if he won, but couldn't turn back time, wouldn't it be worth it? A couple hundred lives on one hand, and the whole world on another? He had sworn to do no harm, and that was easy enough to do when it was just one life on the scale; but his choices were much less straightforward now. Stephen couldn't abide by a black-and-white code any longer, yet he would try and save as many people as he could. Even if it meant his own death, on repeat, forever.

"It doesn't always have to end like that."

Christine clenched her jaws and turned to him, her eyes pleading for him to say the right words.

"Just..." she cleared her throat, but her voice still came out shaky. "Please tell me you haven't killed anyone."


	4. Chapter 4

I could almost go there, just to watch you be seen

I could almost go there, just to live in a dream

Stephen saw it coming. The cloak saw it coming. Neither of them tried to stop it, and the crack of Christine's hand slapping across Stephen's face bounced off the walls. He'd never even replied to her question, but his silence was enough of an answer and she held nothing back. It wasn't just what he had mutely confessed; it was years and years of frustration and disappointment, finally finding a way out of her heart. A loud and painful catharsis. The sound of her heavy breathing was all that was left.

"Well, technically, I didn't kill anyone. You did," Stephen stated, his face still turned away from her as if expecting a second - and possibly worse - slap.

"What?", she asked, between gritted teeth.

"In the hospital, when I asked you to up the voltage and shock me again. That shock wasn't for me."

Christine let out a nervous laugh and started pacing around the balcony, too distressed to stand still.

"What does that even mean?"

"I was fighting with a man, we were both in our astral forms," he explained, turning back to her. "So I asked you to shock me so that the current went through me as I was choking him, and... it somehow killed him."

"So let me get this straight," she said, gesturing away. "You found yourself in some sort of ethereal brawl, and you decide to turn me into an accomplice to murder, when all I was trying to do was to save your life?"

"I didn't really have a choice."

Christine walked back to face him, her index finger touching the thick fabric of his vest.

"Bullshit. You swore an oath, just like I did. We save lives, we don't take them. It's that simple."

Stephen lowered his head to look at her glistening eyes, staring right at him.

"There are other ways to save lives, remember?"

"Saving by killing?," she asked, making her way back to the living room. "Doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me, Stephen."

A soft, firm voice echoed in Stephen's mind.

 _Not everything does. Not everything has to._

The Ancient One's teachings kept on proving to be true even after she was gone, and Stephen had a feeling this would happen fairly often. Christine was right, though; he did take an oath, and even mentioned that to The Ancient One and to Mordo after having killed Lucian. He came to realize, though, that it was a simple enough oath to honor when you're a doctor. You do what you can to save people, one at a time. Outside of an operating room, however, it was never about one person. It was one life versus everyone else's lives. One life versus Christine's life. His own life in exchange for all lives. Hippocrates didn't consider these possibilities when writing that oath.

"You took a life," Christine half-whispered as Stephen stood in the doorway, "do you understand that?"

He let out a chuckle, shaking his head. Her little lecture was over.

"Oh, I understand it just fine. Taking lives, saving lives, losing lives of my own, all of it."

"But you didn't die," she mumbled, cigarette dangling from her lips as she lit it up. "Well, actually you kinda did, and then I brought you back. Sent you back in to the world... heart just humming."

Every single one of those words was a bait, and Stephen decided not to take them. Going down that specific memory lane wouldn't be a pleasant ride, so it was best to take a deep breath and pretend he didn't get the reference.

"I tried to explain it to you the first time I went to the hospital... a sorcerer gave himself over to a very powerful entity from another dimension. This entity was about to dominate - and by dominate, I mean destroy - the Earth, so it had to be stopped. The guy I killed was defending that force."

Christine shook her head, blowing off smoke.

"That's not possible. If aliens had approached us again, I'd have known. I mean, people were watching a livestream of Sokovia as it was blown to bits, for crying out loud."

"Well, you didn't know about it because it didn't happen."

"But you just said-"

"Remember that necklace-type thing I was wearing?"

"Yeah. Very Etsy-like."

"It's an amulet called the Eye of Agamotto. One of its powers is to manipulate time."

"What, like a time machine or something?"

Again, flashes of purple ran through Stephen's head. _You and me, trapped in this moment, endlessly._ Rewind. Die. Rewind. Die.

"Sort of, yes."

"And what does that have to do with the attack?"

He paused, facing his cloak, and it occurred to him that he could tell Christine everything. All the details. That Hong Kong was on the verge of being annihilated when he realized he could use time as a weapon, even though he had no idea how that would work out, or even if it would work out at all. He could tell her that he was able to rewind and fast forward through time, and that was how he turned one of the most powerful beings of all universes into his prisoner. He could tell her about every single way in which he was killed - he remembered them all. She would know just how big of a sacrifice he was willing to make, but being Stephen, he wouldn't be able to make it sound like he wasn't flaunting, and chose to go with the abridged version instead. Less pain. Less bravado.

"I manipulated time so that it never happened."

"Sounds easy enough," Christine shrugged, looking away. "Got a problem? Turn back time and fix it."

"Trust me, it's not easy at all," he said, standing up a bit more straight, still staring blankly at the cloak. "There are... consequences."

Stephen had considered using the Eye for his own benefit many times; the temptation was enormous. Even though he had done many wrongs in his life, it all came down to changing just one choice: he would have stayed home the night of his accident. Better yet, he would have gone to see Christine. But the fabric of time was too feeble and the natural law should not be tampered with - that much he had learned. There were nights, however, when he would have risked it all to go back; not even to change anything, but to relive one moment, exactly the way it was.

It had only been a couple of nights, but it was a new and weird feeling for Christine - coming home knowing that Stephen wouldn't be there, and wouldn't show up later on. She'd been cautious, given his track record of being a jerk, but he'd proven to be good company: he worked crazy hours, spent most of his time reading whenever he was home, and became particularly fond of Christine's pancakes. But the city had cleared up his block, so he had gone back to his place for good that morning. And when Christine came home that afternoon, her usually bare dining table had something unexpected on it. A large black box with a crimson ribbon, and a name which she instantly recognized: Valrhona. She opened the box to find all sorts of dark chocolates, and a shiny, off-white envelope sticking from between the packages. A small note read "Thank you for the hospitality. I'll see you tonight."

Christine had met her fair share of doctors, and all of them wrote in scribbles that could barely pass as letters, herself included. And then there was Stephen, with his impeccable handwriting. Annoyingly perfect, again.

His note was clipped on to an elegant invitation to a charity ball that explained the "I'll see you tonight" part. She'd heard people talk about that ball for weeks, and figured it had been postponed in the light of recent events, but apparently it wasn't the case. None of that really mattered anyway.

"Son of a bitch," Christine muttered under her breath while calling her sister. This was a full-blown emergency, duly accompanied by a cigarette and lots of pacing and gesturing and well, freaking out.

"Sarah, you don't understand. The invitation alone is $400, I have no business being there. Plus, he's famous so I'll probably look like a vase beside him, or... or something just as dull."

"He's not that famous."

"Not famous for you. Where we're going, it's like the Oscars and he's like... he's Daniel Day-Lewis. It's that bad," Christine concluded, staring at her closet.

"Calm down and listen," Sarah ordered while munching on something. "It's only 3pm, there's time. Get that nude and black lace dress you wore at Tanya's wedding. Do your nails."

"They're done," Christine replied, looking at her obviously not-done nails.

"No, they're not. Pull your hair up in that twisty way you know, it's cute. Get something to eat so you won't be starving, rich people don't eat much at those things. Put on mascara and Russian Red. Black peep toe heels. Perfume. Boom, done."

Christine sighed in defeat.

"All right."

"And Christine? Put on some nice underwear."

"Oh, come on."

"You'll thank me later."

Christine set Sarah's plan into motion, because she didn't have a better plan; and even though she didn't feel like being around a crowd of strangers, she felt like being around Stephen. That was enough to get her through her preparations, and she left the house with hopes that the night wasn't a complete bust.

The venue, as expected, smelled like fresh flowers and was all marble and luxurious chandeliers hanging from high vaulted ceilings. People were gathered around bistro tables, and even though there was chatter and low jazz coming from the speakers, it wasn't a lively crowd by any means. No one seemed to be in the mood for celebrating, which was completely justified as part of the city had turned to ashes. It was, however, the perfect time to raise money.

Christine took a few more steps in, searching for a familiar face; and unsurprisingly, he wasn't that hard to find. He was surrounded by a small group, engaged in what it seemed to be a pleasing conversation. He was so engrossed by whatever was the subject they were discussing, that Christine hesitated in moving closer, waiting for a better time to approach him so that she wouldn't interrupt. So she watched as he scanned the room while articulating something, his eyes passing by Christine without recognizing her. Then they snapped back to where she was standing, and that was where they stayed. Stephen excused himself from the group, never breaking his gaze, and made a beeline towards her, adjusting his perfectly fit tuxedo and running a hand through his hair. Christine felt her fingers going slightly numb from gripping at her clutch too hard for too long. He stopped right in front of her.

"So I guess I owe Stark a thank you note."

Christine didn't even try to understand what he meant with that seemingly inappropriate comment, so he spelled it out.

"Well, if he and his friends hadn't destroyed half the city, I wouldn't have invited you to come here tonight, and that..."

He quickly sized her up and made Christine very aware that she was blushing.

"That would have been a shame."

"You don't look too shabby either" was her lame retort, but that was not entirely true. It wasn't true at all. Stephen was far from not being shabby - he looked upscale, fierce, and all Christine could see were spots of gray hair around his temples and sharp cheekbones and his narrowing green eyes. Or were they blue? Could they be both?

"Come," he snapped her out of her musing. "There are some people I want to introduce you to."

They waltzed around the room, and by the time they reached the third group of doctors, they were unceremoniously arm in arm. Stephen was polite to a fault: introduced Christine as a colleague, a brilliant trauma doctor, and talked to people about accomplishments of hers that she had no idea he even knew about. As they moved from circle to circle, Christine began to understand why he was so arrogant: it must be really hard not to see yourself as the best when so many people are constantly reminding you that you are, in fact, the best in what you do. Stephen was flattered, of course; but he seemed to be far more interested in talking about the rise of surgery rehearsal platforms, or his latest article about the use of AI-based robots in neurosurgery - and he observed, amazed, as Christine discussed the article at length with two of his fellow neurosurgeons. The conversation died after a while, and she felt his hand landing, rather firmly, on the small of her back, as he leaned in.

"Let's get a drink," he said, softly like a whisper, and led her to the bar. Third glass of champagne for her, water for him. Stephen was looking at the room, his back leaning against the counter, and Christine was facing the other way around, their arms brushing.

"So you're sticking with water?"

"I'm driving," he replied with a nod. "In fact, I'm driving you home right after you finish that drink."

"Oh," Christine said, feigning surprise before taking a sip. "And what makes you think I want to go home now?"

Stephen had Christine locked in his sight and she allowed herself to get lost in his gaze, again. Their lips were inches apart, and even though she knew it was physically impossible, Christine felt her heart beating in her throat. Her hand was resting on the counter and he moved his hand over hers, his thumb resting on the inner side of her wrist. Christine couldn't feel her own pulse, but Stephen could definitely feel it on his fingertips and there was no way of hiding it.

"This," Stephen said under his breath, pressing his thumb lightly against her fluttering pulse. "This makes me think you want to go."

It was both terrifying and liberating to know that Christine could stop pretending she wasn't attracted to him, because the truth was that during the course of that night, she had met a different Stephen - one she could admire and desire at the same time. And even though Christine would very much like to play that game with him for a little longer, she would like even more to know what his lips felt like. She downed what was left of her champagne and walked away from the bar; a few steps further she realized he wasn't following, so she turned back. He hadn't moved an inch.

"Are you coming?"

He smirked and walked towards her, hands in his pockets, and by the time Christine got her coat, Stephen was already waiting in his car. She had absolutely no idea what was the model or make, but it looked like it came straight from a magazine, new car smell and roaring engines. They rode in silence for a couple of minutes, and Stephen kept his eyes on the road while placing a hand on her thigh. His touch was firm and warm, and for a brief moment, Christine considered complaining about it, but she wouldn't be fooling anyone. He tightened his grip, and that was when she realized they were not going to her place.

"Stephen?"

They stopped at a red light. Stephen looked at her and took his hands off the wheel and her leg to loosen his bow tie.

"I never said I was driving you to your home," he explained, and Christine didn't have much of a choice. Right then, all she wanted was to find out how it was possible for someone to be that good in everything they did, because he was doing a remarkable job at making her want him. The light turned green and he turned to look ahead.

"Your lips are killing me."

"They can do a lot more than that," Christine blurted out as they entered a garage, and watched the wrinkles around his eyes as he smiled. The elevator took about 37 minutes to reach his floor, during which they made a point of behaving really well for the cameras. Stephen opened the door, and Christine was sure there was a lot to see, including the partially destroyed view, but there was absolutely no time to waste. He closed the door behind him and pinned Christine against it.

It was just past 2am when Christine tiptoed to the kitchen, in Stephen's now very wrinkled white shirt, searching for a window so that she could smoke and send Sarah a quick text to thank her.

Stephen searched her face, looking for a smidge of sympathy, anything that could resemble the look in her eyes when she asked him if Kathmandu was like the Bob Seger song. There was nothing. Her expression was almost vacant, as if waiting for something to jolt it out of that indifference. What happened?

Time. Time happened.

She'd had time to think. Time to reminisce and pinpoint every single one of his mistakes, and there were too many of them. Time to remember the good times, but they were not enough. He had never been enough, not for her. He watched as she put out her cigarette in an ashtray where there was no place for one more cigarette butt.

"I should have taken you home that night. I mean, to your home."

She tilted her head. "What night?"

"That... our first night."

Memories came flooding back so fast that Christine couldn't process them properly, just bits and pieces of the most elemental moments: the unflinching grip of his hands on her hips. The roughness of his voice, which became even deeper and hoarser after a few sips of a whiskey bottle he kept in his room. The smell of his shirt, which she eventually managed to steal. The minutes she spent examining the color of his eyes as they lay side by side, and realizing that yes, they were actually green and blue at the same time.

"Christine."

She gasped as those volatile visions fled her mind, and it suddenly seemed very surreal that Stephen was right there, in front of her. As if part of her memories had materialized, even though he wasn't the same person. Was he?

Her eyes didn't seem to be that unforgiving anymore and Stephen would not, could not miss that chance. He placed a hand on her cheek, and out of habit, Christine reached out to touch it; as her fingers trailed his scars, they both closed their eyes. He definitely wasn't the same person, and that made her want to know him all over again.


End file.
